Intervals In Broken Time

A.J. Breton

GSR-angst. Grissom is left reeling from a personal tragedy. Can Sara help put him back together? Can he forgive himself for what he can not fix? Mature rating for a few dark scenes, language and sexual situations.

Disclaimer: you got it, they ain't mine, nor do I profit from the misdeeds described below.

A/N: This is my very first CSI fan-fic. Feedback is welcome, don't ask me where this is going, because I'm not really sure.

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Chapter 1: The Last Nicest Thing I'll Ever Feel...

Catherine's cell vibrated on the clip at her side, unfortunately her hands were full at the moment. She juggled the blood swabs and evidence bags while the phone kept shaking on her hip, finally she got to it, and snapped it open.

"Willows."

"It's me."

"Gil, kinda early for you isn't it?"

It was late evening and her swing shift was hammered. She got ready to hear Gil say he was coming in early, taking over some of her cases. Her mind was already trying to formulate a response that would let him take some of the burden from her while still sounding like she was annoyed with him. She thought she knew what she was going to say, until Grissom spoke again.

"I need you to take over Graveyard tonight."

Alarm bells started clashing in Catherine's head. Gil didn't give up a shift for anything.

"Are you alright?" She heard him sigh.

"I have to go to California."

Cath's heart sank. Cali on short notice? That probably meant one thing.

"Is your mom alright?" Another sigh on the other end of the phone.

"Yeah, she's fine. I got a call from a hospital, my dad is dying."

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"Where's Gris?"

Catherine decided to ignore the obvious annoyance in Sara's voice.

"Gris is in California, I'm taking over Graveyard until he gets back." Anticipating the obvious question she continued, "Apparently his father is in the hospital." She watched as the news sunk in.

By this time the combined Swing-Graveyard shift had all congregated in the break room, and soft chatter about Grissom's dad floated between the friends.

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12 Hours later:

His breath was hot and stank of stale whiskey. He was much bigger than the crying little girl he had pinned by the shoulders and slapped her again, harder than before.

"Damn it, why can't you ever be quiet?" His voice was a harsh whisper.

The girl kept crying. "Shhh. Quiet. My girl, my girl, S-sara." He kept slapping while he thrust against her, into her again and again, the change in his pants pockets jingling around his ankles.

The scream ripped out of Sara's throat and she bolted out of bed. In a moment she went from sleep to running, and it wasn't until her legs hit the couch and she fell onto it in a sprawl that she truly realized she was awake. She clutched the cushions of the couch, sobbing and panting. Leo D'Ortell had been one of her foster fathers many, many years ago, he demanded all the girls in the house only call him daddy, the boys called him sir. That sick fuck would make the rounds every night. When Sara was new to the house he'd spend extra time with her, making her his girl, as he'd said.

Sara pulled herself up into a sitting position on the couch and angrily wiped away the burning tears. That asshole wasn't worth this, he wasn't worth the anger and having nightmares over. Still she sat, and still the tears rolled. Suddenly her tiny apartment felt cavernous. Feeling like she might be swallowed up by the silence she grabbed the remote off the coffee table and turned the TV on. Some asinine reality show flashed across the screen. Sara didn't really watch TV, but now she just need to hear a human voice, any voice, saying anything, it didn't matter what. She curled up on seat still hugging the cushion, desperately wishing it was someone…

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The hotel room was entirely too small. Gil felt caged, trapped by the incredibly gaudy wallpaper and matching carpets and bedspread. He'd spent the last 3 hours in the bar across the street knocking back shots of whatever it was the bartender put in front of him and bottles of too-light watery domestic beer.

Gil stood in the middle of the room and glared at the walls, willing them to move outward, to give him some room. He was a bit scared when it appeared the walls did move, but only groaned as they started spinning around him. He closed his eyes, but the spinning sensation only intensified. Doubled over he breathed deeply, demanding his body not to pass out. Damn he hated being drunk, it never ended well with him. Just another damn thing he didn't do well.

"Damn it!" He yelled at the floor before slowly standing again. He teetered toward the tiny bathroom and turned on the cold water in the sink. He splashed handful after handful on his face, but his skin felt numb. He looked up into his eyes reflected in the mirror. An old, drunken man glared back at him. Christ, I look a lot like my father, he thought. He smacked the mirror with his palm, hard enough to make it sting. He didn't care. It was too quiet here, he needed some noise, he needed to hear someone say something.

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When the ringing cell phone woke Sara, it took her a moment to remember why she wasn't in bed. The TV still flickered, but now it was an infomercial. She stood up, groggy and a little off balance she tottered to her desk where her cell phone chirped. Looking at the caller ID before opening it, she was surprised at the name there, and squinted her eyes at it to make sure it was really who she thought it was.

Grissom, G. Sure enough, that's what it said. She flipped it open and put it to her ear.

"S-ssarara…" The ID had to be wrong, that couldn't be Grissom's voice.

"Sara? Damn it, S-ssara?"

"Grissom? Is that you? What's wrong?" She was fully awake now something terrible must have happened for Gris to sound that wretched.

"I-I just needed….uh…I…ahh…just wanted to call you…" he was rambling and slurring at the same time.

"Are you drunk?" Sara was incredulous.

"NO! I m-mean, not really. I just needed…just wanted to hearyourvoice…" the words started running together. Sara's mind was racing. Where was he? Why was he drunk? Since when did Grissom get drunk? Since when did he want to hear her voice?

"Grissom? Are you still in California?" There was a pause.

"Yeah." At least it was hard to slur a one-word answer.

"Where at?"

"In my hotel…room." Sara sighed, she'd meant what city, not his exact location. He kept talking, breathing heavily into the receiver. God, she thought, he must be shit-faced.

"M-my dad died to-today." Sara's skin went cold. That's why he was drunk.

"Gris, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," his voice had that bitter edge of an angry drunk Sara had heard too many times before, "that sumofabitch never felt ssssorry for me. Before today I hadn't seen him in forty-five years. Forty-five years, Sara!" Sara just stood in her apartment listening to the growing rant. "He left when I was five. Why should I care if he's dead? He's a damn stranger to me!" She heard something break in the background. Something glass.

"Gris, are you alright?"

"They told me he was p-pobably going to die, I should of said, 'good, let the bastard croak,' but no, I jump in my God-damned car and speed all the fucking way out to California, just so I can get the fucking hospital," she heard him suck in a big breath, "just so they can tell me he died ten minutes before I got there! Ten-minutes! I don't see my father in forty-five years and he dies ten fucking minutes before I get there!" He was practically screaming now. Sara had to hold the phone away from her ear. Her heart ached for him, in a strange way she knew what he was feeling. After her father was killed, in spite of everything he had done to her, she had felt sad about his death. She'd spent years hating herself for not hating her father more. She realized the phone had gone silent.

"Gris? Gris, are you still there?"

"Yeah, damn it." He was much quieter now. "Ten fucking minutes, Sara." His voice was resigned now.

"I know. I'm sorry, Grissom, really. I wish I knew what to say."

"Yeah. Me too."

There was a long silence, Sara listened to his breathing, it was slowing down. She wondered if his outburst had sobered him up any. After a few moments longer she broke the quiet.

"When are you coming back to Vegas?"

"Mmm? Uhh, tomorrow. I need some sleep."

"That's a good idea. I'll let you go, you get some rest, and we'll talk tomorrow, okay?"

"Yeah. Sara?"

"What?"

"Thanks."

"For what?"

"For being my girl." With that the phone disconnected.

What? 'My girl.' What the hell did that mean? Sara stood looking at her phone as if she could find the answer on its touchpad. She didn't like cutesy endearments or sweet nicknames, most of the common ones were connected to bad memories, she certainly never expected to hear one come from the mouth of Gil Grissom.

He's drunk, she thought, in a couple hours he'll forget he ever even said it. She flipped of the TV on her way back to her bedroom. She slid between the covers and closed her eyes, only to open them again a few minutes later.

My girl.